You could if you wanted to.
He stared at her, trying hard to see the expression on her face. He said:
I'd enjoy that.
But what are we going to do about Austin?
I don't understand you. There's nothing we can do. Anyway, I'm afraid I ought to go now.
Right NOW? It's still raining.
I… I wanted to get a bath. I feel like a haystack. And I've got to cook supper for someone later. Excuse me.
He stood up and went out of the room.
As he came out of the bathroom, she called:
By the way, Gerard?
Yes?
Wouldn't you rather have a bath here?
No, really, thanks…
Her suggestion embarrassed him for some reason.
Is it easy to get a bath where you live? Is there always hot water?
There's a geyser — you put a bob in it…
When he thought of the bathroom, with its door panelled in brown glass and the deep, old-fashioned bath that could be filled with infinite slowness from the temperamental water heater, he began to feel that Miss Quincey's suggestion had much to be said for it. She said:
It sounds ridiculously troublesome. It would be so much easier here.
Would it be any trouble?
None whatever.
Well — in that case, thank you…
As he undressed, he imagined that Gertrude Quincey had become his mistress, and that he was living here. For some reason, it was very easy to imagine. Except, of course, for Caroline… Caroline was a problem. He thought about it as he released himself cautiously into the warm water. Five years of celibacy, of partial boredom, of the unsuccessful attempt to harvest his own solitude. Then abruptly involvement, too many people, and two potential mistresses. Caroline offered herself with curious frankness. It was the kind of thing one imagined might happen in daydreams; when it happened, it was almost impossible to resist. Yet in many ways Gertrude was the more attractive of the two. The challenge was greater.
He helped himself to bath salts from the row on the window-sill; they smelt of lemon. As he replaced the jar, he heard a sound of singing. He listened carefully, and realised it was Miss Quincey. A moment later she stopped. He sat there, straining his ears to catch the sound above the noise of water refilling the hot tank. It was difficult to imagine Miss Quincey singing to herself, especially after their conversation.
As he dried himself, he could hear her moving about in the room next door. This was the room Caroline slept in. He combed his wet hair, humming a theme from the Prokofiev symphony, and wondered how he could get to know more about Gertrude Quincey.
He opened the door and stepped out on to the landing. He could hear her now in the room at the end of the passageway. He moved towards it, treading softly on the thick carpet.
She said: Oh, you startled me!
Sorry.
How do you feel now?
Fine. Much better.
She finished spreading the counterpane, and pulled it into position. As she turned, he seized her around the waist and lifted her off the ground, doing a single turn with her before setting her down. He said:
I should bath more often.
The feeling of her body excited him. Her cheeks were flushed. She said:
I'm glad you feel better.
He found it difficult not to reach out for her again. Before he could make up his mind, she went out of the door, saying:
Come along. You shouldn't be in here.
Why not?
Because it's my bedroom.
That's no reason.
She said: People wouldn't like it.
He followed her down the stairs.
People won't know, will they? And it's none of their business, anyway.
Perhaps not.
She went ahead of him into the kitchen. He had begun to feel as if he was pursuing her, so he restrained himself from following her, and went instead into the sitting-room. There he sat trying to read a newspaper, while his thoughts recurred constantly to the feeling of holding her, and to the fact that she had made no protest. The uncertainty made him restless; he began to feel annoyed with himself. A moment later she opened the hatch between the kitchen and the sitting-room, asking:
Would you like a cup of tea before you go?
Er… thanks. What are you doing now?
Washing up.
Can I help?
No, thank you. There's almost nothing.
He went into the kitchen, and found her at the sink, wearing a plastic apron. She said:
You needn't have come…
No?
He came up behind her, and put his arms around her waist from behind, saying:
I wanted to. After that superb meal…
Stop it, Gerard!
She made no attempt to push his arms away. He lowered his face until his chin rested against the top of her head.
Do you object?
Of course I object. Do stop it, please.
He released her, and picked up a tea towel.
Does it make you angry to be touched?
No… but it's rather pointless, isn't it?
Her tone was not encouraging, but he had already made his decision. He said cheerfully:
Oh, I don't know. I must admit I enjoy it.
Don't be silly.
Why silly?
Just because I invite you to lunch you don't have to flirt with me.
He took the last fork from her, and dried it.
Tell me, Gertrude… These Jehovah's Witnesses who come here.. don't they ever flirt with you? I mean the men, of course.
They're mostly married.
Hmmm. What about this artistic set?
What artistic set?
Austin told me you have a lot of arty-crafty people around.
She looked at him with surprise:
I don't know what he's talking about. I know one or two people in Hampstead — a retired colonel, a publisher's reader.
He suspected that she was trying to keep the conversation deliberately casual. The kettle was already boiling; she started to make tea. He asked:
